


Rich People Are Weird

by TeamGwenee



Series: Halloween at Casterly Rock [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I'm not a monster), (Not Brienne and Jaime), Brienne is a badass, Crack, F/M, Gore, Violence, halloween fic, lots of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-29 08:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Every five years, the wealthiest families in King's Landing partake in a gruesome ritual, and one Brienne Tarth finds herself at the centre of it.





	1. The Target

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by 'Ready or Not'.

“I really think you should put down something about your fencing medals honey, it will look good. Regional champion four years running!” Selwyn advised Brienne as she sat hunched over her screen, a thin line forming between her eyebrows. She jabbed miserably at the keys, trying to get the O to work. They were being little bitches again.

“But how relevant are fencing skills to a Personal Assistant job?” Brienne asked. “Maybe if it was a team sports…”

“It shows you have determination, that you are willing to put in effort to achieve your goals,” Selwyn explained.

“Or will it show that my CV is so empty that I need to pad it out with completely irrelevant information?” Brienne shot back. “All I have is my Criminology degree, and my references from the chippy.”

“Your problem is sweetheart, is that you don’t know how to sell yourself,” Selwyn sighed, placing a mug of tea beside her on the coffee table, the one with cup ring stains and a broken leg boosted up by a pile of biking journals.

“I’m not even sure I _want_ to sell myself to Tywin Lannister. That man is a monster, all those families are. The bribery, the abuse of their workers, the bank accounts in Lys…they’re disgusting.”

“The Tyrells aren’t so bad, their employees are treated alright and there’s all that philanthropic work,” Selwyn said, heading back into their tiny kitchen and getting out a saucepan.

“Only when there are cameras around,” Brienne snorted derisively.

It was common knowledge that the Tyrells philanthropy was limited to society dinners to raise money for their own charities, which they then pocketed over half the proceeds of on the grounds of ‘expenses’.

“And even the Starks have offshore bank accounts. They all just want to pick and choose when and where they get to help us plebs, giving money they don’t need to make a good photo-op, whilst still holding the reins tight enough that we have no choice if they want to take it back.”

“Well, I’m afraid that here and now, we don’t get to pick and choose,” Selwyn called, replacing the full up cake bowl on the windowsill with the saucepan, there to collect water from their leaking roof.

Brienne sighed and nodded, clicking send on her finished CV. Selwyn came back in and patted her shoulder.

“It’s only for little while,” he reassured her. “Work a year for Tywin Lannister and doors will open, you’ll see. Maybe you will earn enough to buy your soul back.” He winked deviously. “And that Jaime Lannister is awfully handsome.”

Brienne scoffed. “Oh yes, I’m sure the heir to one of the wealthiest men in Westeros is dying for the chance to come and sweep me off my feet. After all, I’m such a catch!” Brienne looked pensively at her screen. “_Do_ you think I should have mentioned my fencing medals?”

#

“Is it that time again?” Jaime asked as staff bustled around him in preparation, as though he had not spent the last five years counting down the hour.

Tywin shot Jaime a gimlet eye. “This is no time for your jokes,” he hissed. “You and your brother, you will take this seriously.” Jaime gave a mocking salute with his good hand, strolling into the front parlour and sitting beside his brother, who had already gotten started on the self-medicating.

“Family pride at stake here,” he agreed as Tywin entered the room. “Can’t let the fucking Starks have two victories in a row.”

“Don’t play the fool with me boy. That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Tywin snapped, even if he did desperately want to slice the smug look off Ned Stark’s face personally. “Need I remind you what happened ten years ago, when you let your foolish sense of honour cloud your judgement?”

“No father,” Jaime said through gritted teeth.

“As punishment for your foolishness, the Gods took your sister; your twin sister Jaime, and your mother from us. Joanna, who was the best of us, taken because you chose the life of a stranger over your family.” Tywin turned to look at the oil painting of his late wife, smiling down benevolently from her place on the wall. “The Gods were merciful they did not take more; they will not be so again.”

“So who is our guest of honour?” Tyrion asked, looking mournfully at the bottom of his empty wine glass.

“A young woman who reached out to me in reply to the personal assistant advertisement I put out,” Tywin said. “A woman of little importance, only one living relative, but of sound health. She should provide us some good sport. Her name is Brienne Tarth.”


	2. The Families

“Dress shoes?”

“Check!”

“White tie and tails?”

“Check!”

“Semi-formal shirt and slacks for breakfast?”

“Check!”

“Long bow?”

“Check!”

Loras beamed at Margaery, his perfectly coiffed curls practically quivering with anticipation.

“This is going to be our year Margie; I can feel it!” he crowed.

“Don’t be foolish boy,” Olenna scoffed as she entered the room. “We Tyrells never win. If it weren’t for what happened to the Targaryens when they refused to play, I wouldn’t bother with it. There’d be no point.”

“Apart from flirting with Tywin Lannister, that is,” Margaery said coyly.

Olenna smirked and admired her reflection in the antique Qartheen glass mirror on the wall.

“It’s good to be reminded I’m still a woman, and to see dear Tywin get flustered of course.”

#

“Now Sansa,” Catelyn said, “This is your first hunt and I am sure you will do our family proud. But first, you must hear the rules.”

“Yes Mummy,” Sansa said dutifully, a poised and pretty girl of sixteen, sat gracefully and refined in the chair before her father’s ancient oak desk.

“First rule, respect,” Ned said sternly. “The sacrifice is giving their life so that our family can prosper and continue to watch over this land and its people. In turn, we must be grateful and considerate of the chosen one’s pain and fear. Even as we plunge our daggers into its heart, we must treat it with respect and preserve its dignity.”

Sansa nodded seriously, taking note of the candles flickering beneath the stuffed heads and pelts above the fireplace. She herself had partaken in lighting the latest candles, five years ago on the last hunt when it had been Winterfell’s turn to host the event. She had not been old enough to partake, but she and all the Stark children had been gathered by their father and mother to light the candles in honour of the sacrifice and to go to pray before the Godswood in thanks.

That year, Robb had landed the killing blow and father said that Tywin Lannister had nearly wept with jealousy.

“Next, tradition,” Catelyn said. “Other families may forget such things as ritual and ceremony in favour of getting a quick kill, but it is these rituals that bind us to our ancestors and give our actions purpose.”

“Do you remember the chant?” Ned asked his daughter.

“Yes Daddy, I’ve been practising in the shower.”

“Excellent. Final rule, we hunt together, as a family. Through blood and toil, our bond is strengthened and our faith to the Gods are proven. The lone wolf dies,”

“But the pack survives,” Sansa completed.

Ned cupped Sansa’s cheek and kissed her forehead, tears in his eyes. “I’m so proud of you honey.”

#

“This is our year Stanny!” Robert declared, handling his antique battle axe with loving care. “Tywin Lannister is desperate to make up for the past two hunts, I can’t wait to watch him crumble and break again. And we’ll show old Ned-boy a thing or two, five years on and he’s still crowing about his son getting the kill.”

“I’m surprised you remember the last hunt,” Stannis remarked dryly, “Seeing as you spent half the night passed out drunk with your head in the toilet.”

#

“You want me to pick her up?” Jaime asked, pink eyes blinking at his father’s announcement.

“I want her kept away from the staff as much as possible,” Tywin explained coolly. “And it will make it more credible when you claim that you dropped her off near the airport. You will pick her up and take her directly to her room. Choose whichever you wish, just see that it is far from any exits.”

Jaime clenched his jaw and nodded. Tywin produced a picture, neatly folded in half, and pressed it into Jaime’s hand.

Jaime looked down at the face peering up at him. A young woman, staring straight at the camera. Her limp blonde hair was neatly tucked behind her ears and her face was cool and unsmiling. A Passport pic. Despite the grim formality, her youth was evident. No older than twenty-four, twenty-five. Her pale skin, white under the glaring flash, was covered in freckles and her eyes…. her eyes. So young and so blue. So, so blue.

Jaime imagined the pale face growing paler still, splatters of blood dancing with the freckles speckling her skin. Her eyes widening, the innocence ripped from her and replaced with confusion and doubt, and then the fear as the light began to fade.

Jaime crumpled the picture in his fist and buried it into his pocket.


	3. The Arrival

The reply from Tywin Lannister; (Tywin Lannister himself!), was unexpected to say the least. Although she had not been granted the job yet, he was willing to interview her and requested her presence at an informal weekend party he was hosting, in the hopes of getting to know her better. Normal job interviews in offices were terrifying enough, but to spend the weekend at Casterly Rock, the Lannister stately home, with a bunch of blue bloods had her shitting bricks.

Still, she had to say yes. Faint heart and those who helps themselves and all that. And as her father had declared optimistically, even if Tywin Lannister did not have a job for her after all, then perhaps the Starks or Tyrells or Baratheons might? There could be no harm in getting her face shown.

The car sent to pick her up from the airport was driven by none other than Jaime Lannister.

“The chauffeurs have the weekend off,” he was quick to explain as Brienne put her suitcase in the back seat, as though he was eager to make it clear to her in that in the usual way of things, he would never deign to come pick her up.

Casterly Rock was worse than she imagined, an ugly clash of gaudy ancient decadence and vulgar modernity.

“Here we are,” Jaime said as they pulled into the gargantuan front courtyard. “Home sweet home.” He twisted around in his seat, grinning like a shark as he waited for her response.

Brienne loathed the way he was looking at her, studying, assessing, waiting for her to be overawed, but she took it on the chin and thanked him for the ride.

Jaime lead her through the echoing halls and twisting corridors, strutting ahead with aggravating ease.

“Yellow Drawing Room to the left,” he drawled, “Music room five doors along on the right. “Front Parlour two doors along from that. I do hope it’s not too intimidating for you.”

“Bathrooms?” Brienne asked.

Jaime turned to her with a malicious grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He threw a casual gesture with a gloved hand towards a large window overlooking the grounds. “Swimming pool, stables and jet pad are outside, all sign posted. But the pilot is having the week off so you’re out of luck if you fancy a jaunt. Actually, all the usual staff is off this week. It’s a bit of a pain to be honest, we only have temporary staff in, and they have to be out of the house by midnight. They won’t be much use for directions, so I _strongly_ suggest you get the lay of the land as soon as possible.”

“How distressing for you,” Brienne said, not quite sarcastically but not entirely sincerely.

Jaime raised an eyebrow at the tone of her voice.

“I decided to put you on this floor,” he said mildly, leading Brienne down a long row of swords and spears and axes crossed over on the wall. Brienne ground to a halt, staring wide eyed at the impressive displays of priceless antique weaponry. Brienne had taken a bachelor’s in criminology but had joined both a history society and medieval re-enactment society in her uni days, and her heart could not help but flutter at the sight before her.

“And here is your suite,” Jaime said, pushing open a door to a large bedroom with a massive bed and spacious living area. “So, what do you think?”

“You have a lovely home,” Brienne managed.

Jaime shrugged. “The summer house in Lys is nicer, and our apartment on Naath. The White Harbour house needs renovation though. What else do you think, of being here?”

Last winter Brienne’s dad caught pneumonia because they had no heating and they couldn’t afford to fix the broken boiler. He had silently showered in the cold so that Brienne could have the hot water and ended up in hospital.

“I am grateful that Mr Lannister has invited me to his home and has given me this opportunity. I hope I prove myself worthy of his time.”

Jaime’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that all? What do you really think of us? Come on, I won’t tell.”

The challenging tone of his voice sent Brienne’s hackles up. “To be perfectly candid, I do not think; and never have, that so much wealth can be good for a person. And it certainly cannot be good for others.”

Jaime looked over his home with light interest, as though mildly considering Brienne’s words.

“Do you know what, Ms Tarth? I think you may be right.”


	4. The Festivities Begin

Starks, Lannisters, Tyrells and Baratheons. And Brienne Tarth. Brienne Tarth in a black dress which she had brought three years ago for a funeral from a charity shop, that could well have been used previously in a burial for all she knew. (It came with somewhat suspicious mud stains, which left Brienne certain someone had either been buried in it, or it was worn on a date that went very well.) It was the single ‘smart dress’ she owned, and she had packed it only on the off chance that it would be needed.

She had taken Tywin Lannister’s description of the party being an ‘informal event’ at its word and fuck her for it. The men were in severe black tuxedos with white bow ties and the ladies were in designer dresses that they probably paid more for than Satan would take for Brienne’s soul.

(If only because Brienne knew people like her were dime a dozen and she was pretty sure those dresses were custom couture.)

Brienne was certain that thrusting her into a social situation of this sort was a test on Tywin Lannister’s behalf, something to prove her worthiness as a PA, who no doubt would be required to be on hand during these events. That she had turned up unprepared and under-dressed was definitely a mark against her, but she hoped she could still salvage the night.

He had not spoken to her properly; he had barely even looked at her when they first shook hands. He was now stood beside the large double windows, talking to the infamous Olenna Tyrell; who had been a glamour model and tv presenter in her youth before marrying into money. Brienne pondered whether she should address him, go up to him and make him notice her. Maybe he wanted to see if she was the type of person who could put herself forward. Who knew how to ‘sell herself’ as her dad said?

Or maybe that would be the absolute worst choice to make and he wanted someone who could blend into the background, make herself go unnoticed but always be at hand?

The Tyrells and Starks were cordial enough, and the notoriously handsy Robert Baratheon more than cordial. But every time she turned her back, she could feel the stares of the other guests fixed upon her. Probably wondering what this poor, homely girl in the second-hand dress was doing here, dining with the bluest bloods in the land.

No longer caring what Tywin Lannister thought, and just wanting to make it through the night, Brienne ducked passed a server with a silver tray of tiny sculptures that claimed to be food, and out into the hallway.

There, she sat with her head pressed against a wall, wondering if she should just call it quits, when she heard a kind voice behind her.

“Having a good evening?” one of the waiters; a friendly, plump, round face young man with a gentle smile, asked her.

Brienne smiled weakly back. “Delightful,” she muttered.

The waiter looked over his shoulder to check no one was watching, before coming closer. “Are you alright Ms Tarth?”

“Brienne, please, call me Brienne.”

“Alright _Brienne_, the name’s Sam. Sam Tarly.” He placed his tray on an antique side table and tentatively placed his hand on her shoulder. “So what brings you here tonight? Not that you shouldn’t be here, of course!” he hastened to add, “Just that you don’t look; well not look, you don’t particularly-”

“It’s alright,” Brienne assured him. “I’m meant to be here to be interviewed for a job, but I don’t think it’s going well. Honestly, I’m thinking about just giving up.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” Sam chided her gently. “Gilly, my girlfriend, every time me or our son wants to give up on something, she tells us to stick it out. She says, ‘sometimes we surprise even ourselves with what we can overcome’.”

“That’s sweet,” Brienne said with a smile.

Sam nodded in agreement. “She put it on a cushion,” he said. “It will be dinner soon, go back in there and try to make a good impression, see if you can win him over.” He gave Brienne a gentle shove in the direction of the door. “I will be rooting for you.”


	5. Feasting

The dinner was eight courses of fiddly bits, with copious glasses of wine served in-between. The minutes ticked on, edging closer and closer to midnight. Brienne was sat nowhere near Tywin Lannister but was wedged between his two sons. Tyrion had proved himself the friendlier of the two, having taken a break from his drinking to tell her that she was to use the cutlery from the outside in.

Aside from that, neither had addressed her. Margaery Tyrell had asked some honeyed questions about her family, and Catelyn Stark had pushed her shy seeming daughter into shaking her hand and introducing herself, along with the rest of the Starks. But nothing that would give her the opportunity to prove herself to be ‘PA material’. Unless Tywin Lannister had placed her beside Tyrion to see if she would take the initiative to stem the flow of alcohol into his veins.

The newest course was filet mignon, something Brienne at least recognised as food, and she was just about to tuck in when she noticed Jaime’s mouth sneer from the corner of her eye. The man, already half a god in jeans and t-shirt, looked particularly stunning in his elegant tails. Whereas his tuxedo was tailored to perfection, his hair was ragged, and shoulder length and he had not shaved. Proud and disdainful, with a mane of golden hair, he was every inch the Lion of Lannister.

And as he futilely tried to cut into his meat with a single hand; his right hand stiff and unbending by his plate, a crackle of frustration in his eyes gave him the appearance of being on the brink of breaking out into a roar.

Brienne discretely took a sip of wine and placed the cup between herself and Jaime, shielding his hand from view, and then sticking her fork into his cut of steak, allowing him to cut off several slices.

She did so throughout the course, never once looking at him lest he be embarrassed. It was only as the plates were cleared away did she spy a peak at him amongst the kerfuffle.

She found him staring at her, his eyes wide, cleared of their typical film of apathy and filled with something nearly bordering on wonderment, for such a simple act of kindness.

“Thank you,” he whispered, beneath the din of cutlery and china.

The colour rising in her cheeks, Brienne shrugged and turned to the next course.

Snails in garlic butter. Great.

#

Despite having drunk little, Brienne was clearly not used to the calibre of stuff served at Lannister dinner parties. She woke with a start, praying desperately that she had merely dozed off, that no one had noticed. That Tywin had not noticed.

The Dining Room was empty. Clearly, everyone had seen she was asleep and left her alone.

Bugger.

Bugger _bugger_ bugger!

Rubbing her pounding forehead, Brienne frowned, squinting through blurry eyes at the television set before her.

Well, if Tywin Lannister was going to tell her she had not been hired, she had to at least give him points for ingenuity and the pure drama of his chosen method.

Her head was just beginning to clear as the television screen snapped and crackled to life. Before her, sat Tywin Lannister, looming behind a heavy antique desk and frowning through the screen.

“Ms Tarth, I apologise for the confusion I have no doubt you are experiencing,” he began. “In this recorded message I shall endeavour to explain the situation to you. In the spirit of fair play, I strongly suggest you listen carefully to my next words.”

Brienne began to feel sweat trickle down her forehead, a lump forming in her throat. She could not imagine what Tywin Lannister was going to say to her, with his now clearly drugged wine and the dead eyes of a shark. She couldn’t imagine it was anything good, but she refused to imagine the worst, even if the worst was almost certainly the most probable.

She shifted in her chair, half-rising to go to the door, when Tywin spoke once more.

“The door is locked, as are the windows. Casterly is in lock down. In half an hour, the door will automatically un-lock and you will be free to explore the house at will.

“Your purpose here is simple. Every five years, the Great Houses of Westeros gather to partake in a hunt. They are obliged to compete against each other, and the House that wins will be granted great wealth and prosperity in the years to come.

“Failure to compete results in tragedy for the House. Twenty years ago, Aerys Targaryen; in a fit of idiotic blasphemy, refused to play and nearly his entire family was destroyed, roasted to death in a fire. His companies crashed, his son’s political party crumbled, his last surviving daughter was forced to make a living appearing in second rate reality television shows, and his legacy was left in shreds.

“Ten years ago, we failed to slaughter the prey before dawn. My daughter and my wife, my Joanna, died of heart attacks within minutes of each other.

“There is not a noble House that has not suffered from refusing to play the game, and not a single House will be spared should they repeatedly scorn the Gods with their belligerence. Centuries of prosperity can be attributed to the sacrifice we make on the night of the hunt, prosperity that allows our lands and businesses to flourish and thrive, providing the people of this country with employment and security.

“I tell you this so you understand the necessity of our actions here tonight, and so that you can accept this is not in any way personal. Perhaps you may even feel honoured, for in your death you will no doubt do a greater service to your country than you could hope to have achieved in life.”

Tywin looked at his watch.

“I shall allow you twenty minutes to cry, scream, beg and essentially make a lot of unnecessary noise. After that, the doors will open, and you will be given a ten minutes head start. Then, the hunt will begin. Your twenty minutes start…now.”

Twenty minutes wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.


	6. Stags

Brienne stumbled through the candle lit halls, blindly feeling her way around the house. It wasn’t real, it had to be a trick. A nasty, _vicious_ trick. Rich people were weird, different. Everyone knew that.

That didn’t stop the tears from tracking down her cheeks, it didn’t stop her heart from beating against her ribs and pounding like an army drummer in her ears. She didn’t know if it was tradition, or just for the sake of atmosphere, but all the lights had been switched off and replaced with candles. The red walls were the colour of dried, crusting blood in the dark, the numerous ornaments and statues and lamp shades throwing large, looming shadows down the hall.

Brienne had left the dining room dizzy from the drugs and dazed from the weeping. Her tears had dried and she resolved not to scream, nor to weep once more like the stupid heroine in a shitty horror film. She would not give them the satisfaction, and she would not alert them to her location. She knew not where they would be coming from, or whether their hunt had begun. She had no way of telling the time, she could have been traipsing bare foot down the twisting halls for an hour, or for two minutes for all she knew.

“A Bear there was! A Bear! A Bear! All black and brown and covered in hair!” a voice boomed through the hall, as heavy, thundering footsteps echoed in front of her.

“Robert! You will alert the target of our position. Be silent!” a second voice hissed.

“He licked the honey from her hair! The Bear, the Bear and the Maiden fair!”

“For goodness sakes Robert! Mind that axe!”

Fingers numb, Brienne grasped at a heavy door-nob and pushed it open, cursing the scrape and squeal of the wood against the stone floor.

Brienne sighed in relief as she felt for the light switch, and the room flooded with light. She was in a billiards room. Trembling, she looked round in a blind panic for anything that could be used as a weapon. They were certain to have heard the door shut and were coming ever closer. She grabbed at the cue and grimaced. She might be able to land a blow if she took them by surprise, but she was one person against two men armed with axes, and fuck knew what else.

Her eyes laid on the balls. Propping the cue against a wall in the corner, she silently gathered the balls and lay them before the door. She then switched off the light, and carefully made her way to a corner and crouched in the darkness.

Clutching the cue in one hand, Brienne placed the other over her mouth, muffling the heavy, rasping breaths as she gasped and heaved. 

The door swung open and the gargantuan silhouette of Robert Baratheon emerged against the candlelight.

“Where are you my pretty? I know you’re in here?” he jeered, his axe poised and ready to swing.

_‘Just a step closer,’ _Brienne thought. _‘Just take a step closer.’_

He wasn’t moving. If he turned on the lights, or stepped forward with care, he had the chance to evade her trap. Swallowing her dread, Brienne unclamped her hand and let out a whimper.

“Got you, ya bitch!” he cheered.

He stepped forward in haste, the arch of his foot landing squarely on the balls. He slid and stumbled, and for one cruel, taunting moment Brienne thought he had regained his balance, before he plummeted to the ground with an almighty thud.

Flailing and thrashing like a beached whale, the drunken Robert tried and failed to regain his footing. Brienne snapped to action, jumping to her feet and switching on the nearest light. She rammed the cue into Robert’s full stomach, causing him to squeal and squirm. His grip on his axe loosened and Brienne swept down, the handle awkward and heavy in her sweaty palms.

She tried to flee as Robert’s hand clutched at her ankle, rooting her to the spot. Brienne wrenched and pulled, but his grip did not loosen.

“Stannis!” he bellowed, “Stannis! She’s in here!”

Gritting her teeth and shutting her eyes, Brienne raised the axe and brought it down. Robert screamed as the axe embedded itself into his shoulder, but even as the blood swelled in his mouth his did not relinquish his hold on her ankle. Brienne wrenched the axe from his shoulder, the blade making a sickening scrape as it was pulled from the bone.

She brought it down again and buried it into his skull.

She had killed a man.

The whole thing had taken less than two minutes.

In a matter of seconds, Brienne had killed a man. A life. A soul. A body, with its millions of cells and millions of breaths and the child of a million choices and a million more coincidences, had been cut short. And all at Brienne’s hands.

Footsteps, quick and frantic, came scurrying down the hall. Adjusting her grip on the axe, Brienne slid behind the door and waited for Stannis to find his brother’s dead body.

This time, with his back turned to her as he stood over the corpse of his slain brother, the axe did its job even faster.

Less than twenty seconds, in total.


	7. Falling Petals

Her whole body shuddered as violent tremors ripped through her. She had vomited up her dinner; chewed up chunks of steak and fish swimming in red wine, in the billiards room and continued to dry heave as she stumbled along.

Her hands, her hot sweaty hands, slick with blood, shook. The axe, heavier than its weight in metal and wood, was so heavy. The longer it stayed in her grasp, the more blood trickled down the blade to her fingers and dripped from the steel onto her bare feet.

She dropped it.

With a crash and clatter, she dropped it.

_(she _fucking_ dropped it)_

And then she ran.

She knew not where she was running to, only that she had to get away from the bodies, the _men. _The corpses of the men _she had killed. _Brienne stumbled onto a landing overlooking the entrance hall, collapsing against the stairs and clutching at the bannisters, choking for air.

Aware of her vulnerability, she stood and ducked into an alcove, tucking her knees beneath her chin and curling up like child. Panting, she raked her bloodied fingers down her face, leaving streaks of dripping red down her cheeks, like tears of blood. Like red battle paint.

She heard the tapping of heels echoing from below, the perky clip-clop of Margaery Tyrell’s designer stilettoes. Two other pairs of feet accompanied her.

“I’m just saying, Grandmama, that if you want to flirt with Tywin Lannister, that is your own business. But for the love of the Seven, please remember that you don’t _have_ to give him a lap-dace in front of your grandchildren!”

“Oh stop being such a precious little flower Loras and grow up. Your grandmother is a vibrant, passionate, _sensual _woman with needs.”

“I accept that Grandmama, but do you have to flaunt those needs in front of us?”

“Well I don’t hear your sister complaining.”

“Actually Grandmama, I did think the strip tease was going a little far.”

“What else was I supposed to do while we waited for the Tarth girl to wake? Sing drunken shanties with Robert Baratheon? Talk about the lumber trade with Ned Stark.”

“Ned Stark’s reaction was something to behold.”

“Poor dear still thinks that the hunt should be solemn and dignified. The hunt at Winterfell was so dull I was seconds away from volunteering myself as a sacrifice just to make the night end.”

Margaery came swishing up the stairs, her ivory satin skirts glowing faintly as the intricate beading sparkled in the dim light. She dropped onto the top stair, perching delicately as she unbuckled her shoes and held them in one hand. She flexed her stockinged toes in relief as she sighed in pleasure.

Brienne watched from the shadows of the alcove, hand over mouth. Margaery did not seem to be armed and was vastly smaller than Brienne. But Loras, following up the stairs in his still pristine tuxedo, held a long bow and seemed strong. Following behind in a sweeping evening gown of golden lace, Olenna was by far the most vulnerable member of the trio, but the one furthest away.

Brienne cursed herself for dropping the axe like _a fucking idiot. _Next thing she would be screaming and shrieking for no good reason like a stupid blonde from a shitty horror film.

Margaery was close, hopefully easy to overpower. Brienne knew she might very well have a weapon concealed upon her, but Brienne knew that her discovery was at hand and she needed to act while she still had the element of surprise.

In a quick, fluid movement, Brienne lunged from the shadows and grabbed a hold of the stunned Margaery, thrusting her before her as a human shield.

“You bitch!” Loras snarled. “Let her go!”

He lifted his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips and took aim, but as long as Brienne had Margaery before her Brienne knew he would not release.

Margaery squirmed in Brienne’s grip, causing her to wince as she buried her heel into Brienne’s bare toes. Brienne winced, but gave thanks Margaery was no longer wearing the shoes.

The shoes.

Margaery was swinging the heels wildly in a desperate bid to get free. Brienne’s hands were busy keeping Margaery in front of her and she could not waste too much time wrestling them from Margaery’s Myrish-tipped fingers. She leaned forward and put her mouth by Margaery’s shell like ears.

She screamed.

But it was not the scream of a disposable blonde in the first five minutes of a horror story. It was the scream of nails against steel, of a banshee come to foretell the death of cherished relative.

It was the scream of a fox mid-fuck.

Margaery flinched and her fingers loosened, just enough for Brienne to rip the shoes from her grasp and fist her hand into Margaery’s chestnut curls, tugging her head down. Margaery looked up at Brienne with a wide, doe eyed gaze.

Brienne lifted one of the shoes and buried its sharp heel into one of Margaery’s fearful brown eyes.

This time it was Margaery’s turn to scream.

Brienne grasped Margaery’s shoulders and shoved her forward, sending her sharply into Loras’s chest. The pair plummeted down the twisting staircase, toppling Olenna with them on the way like a bowling pin.

Brienne heard thuds and snaps, and warily made her way to the bannister.

Before her, she could see the Tyrells laying limp on the floor. Blood pooled around Loras’s and Olenna’s cracked skulls, and Margaery looked up at Brienne with the heel still dug into her eyeball, gazing up from where her neck had twisted around.

That was five.

Five dead in less than an hour.

It had taken less than an hour for Brienne to become a killer. Two predators for her to find that secret part of her hidden within her veins.

Another three to embrace it.


	8. The Pack

Sansa was jittery. It was her first hunt and it was to be expected, but that didn’t stop her father from glaring at her.

The hunt mattered deeply to her father. The Starks took their responsibility to the North seriously, dedicating their entire lives to its service. Out of all the families, they were the only ones to remember and observe the traditional rites. The night of prayer within the Godswood, the fasting the day before. The antique hunting daggers passed down for generations and elegant sweeping robes. The ancient chant they recited as they slaughtered the sacrifice.

“We are no Tyrells, who see this as a socialising event. We are no Lannisters who treat the hunt like a chore. We observe the ancient rituals and we honour the sacrifices made,” Ned had reminded Sansa as they changed into their robes.

(The unbearably fabulous and sophisticated Margaery Tyrell who Sansa had immediately marked out as her new best friend had sniggered slightly on seeing them, and Sansa had needed her father’s pushing to keep them on.)

“Remember to act with decorum Sansa,” Catelyn reminded her as the slipped silently through the darkness.

Sansa flushed and nodded, feeling as uncouth and uncultured as Arya. Taking a calming breath, Sansa followed in her mother’s wake, taking care to copy her mother’s fluid glide. Robb took the rear, his sharp blue eyes watching his family’s back. Ned strolled head, his grey eyes narrowed and jaw set.

Sansa could see he was worried. Worried for her.

Ned’s little sister had nearly taken down the sacrifice on her first hunt but had wavered at the last moment and fled into the Godswood, never to be seen again. He had lost his sister to the Gods’ wrath and had no intention of losing his eldest daughter too.

Sansa knew her family saw her as the most fickle and fragile of the pack and she was determined to prove them wrong.

The drew to a halt as Ned raised his hand.

“I see her,” he whispered.

A shadow figure darted across the hallway, unseeing of the pack watching her in silence.

“She’s going towards the West Wing,” Ned murmured. “We should be able to corner her. Come.” As one the pack moved. Sansa felt a shiver, her soul moved by the splendour and pageantry her family brought to the event.

She had been reluctant to shake Brienne Tarth’s hand earlier. Sansa had little desire to mix with the nice, unassuming woman whom she was soon to slaughter. But her mother had been right. It meant something. In shaking her hand and looking her in the eye and _seeing; _truly seeing, the life that had been marked for death, the soul that would not outlive the night, the eyes that had seen the last of the sun. It meant something.

They found Brienne fruitlessly trying to open a heavy wooden door. The whites of her eyes shone in the dark, as wide and frightened as a stalked doe as the family moved as one.

Ned raised his dagger and Sansa knew the ritual had begun.

“To those who witnessed the birth of the world, the splitting of the land and the dawn of our country, we honour thee. Thou hast fed us. Thou hast healed us. Thou hast brought us rain in summer and fire in winter,” they said together.

Brienne blinked, wondering why the hooded family did not just plunge their daggers into her and get it over with.

“Water our lands with the blood of this innocent. Feed our young with the flesh of this offering. Take this child of your love back into your womb and look with favour upon our people.” Ned raised his dagger ever higher.

“We are the swords in the darkness. We are the watcher on the walls. We are the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that-”

“I’m sorry what was that bit about the fire?” Brienne asked politely.

Ned lowered his dagger slightly and raised his voice so that Brienne could hear.

“I said that we are the fire that burns against the Oh Shit Fuck Bugger it!” he swore. He turned to his family, huffing in frustration. “Alright, on my count we start again. One…two…”

“Three!” Brienne growled, pounding her fist into his stomach.

Ned doubled over with an oof. Brienne sent him barrelling into his family, causing them to twist their feet in their trailing robes and tumble to the floor.

Brienne used her long legs to leap over the pile of groaning Starks, before sprinting down the corridor and disappearing into the darkness.

“For fucks sake Ned!” Cat hissed as she clambered to her feet.

Robb glowered at his father. “Honestly Dad, and to think we were all worried about Sansa being the one to cock it up.”

#

The Starks had agreed to cut out the vows and get straight to the stabbing after that, panning out slightly to cover more ground. The near hit had left them all shaken, especially Sansa (who was also rather put out by Robb’s cock it up comment.)

“I see her!” Sansa shrieked, lunging forward and burying her dagger into the body she had spied in the corner of her eye.

With a scream and a squeal, Samwell Tarly fell to the ground with a thud. He lay groaning and writhing in pain, clutching his belly as Sansa looked over him with horror.

“Sansa,” Catelyn hissed as she ran to her daughter’s side, “what have you done?”

Ned joined his daughter and wife, his face blanching at the sight before him.

“I’m sorry Daddy!” Sansa wailed, “I thought it was Brienne!”

“What was he even doing here?” Robb asked. “All the staff were meant to have been gone by midnight.”

“I… forgot… my... keys,” were Samwell Tarly’s (really rather unfortunate) last words.

“You have taken a life that was not yours,” Ned said solemnly, “You will have to do penance when we return home.”

“Yes Daddy,” Sansa said meekly.

“Robb, Ned, pick the poor lad up and hide him in the tub in that bathroom we passed,” Catelyn said decisively. “Come on, quickly now before someone trips over him and gets hurt.”


	9. The Lion Awakes

Running her hand along the walls, Brienne found an unlocked coat closet, mercifully large enough to hide in. Her clothes were stuck to her back, slick with perspiration, and her head was pounding. She needed a drink. She needed to rest. She needed to be back home with her father, safe and happy, back before this nightmare she had stumbled into had started.

Of the twelve hunters baying for her blood, five were dead at her hand. The Starks she had outwitted once before, it was the Lannisters who were the unknown entity. And they knew this castle, every inch and crack.

Tywin Lannister, with the dead wife and dead eyes of a shark. Tyrion Lannister, who had smiled at her so benignly as he watched her fumble over what fork to use.

Jaime who had driven her and teased her whilst all the time knowing what was planned for her. Jaime whose meat she had cut for him when she should have been digging her knife into his last good hand instead.

Jaime who had shown her to her bedroom on the floor with walls lined with….

swords.

Brienne’s brain pounded against her skull. She needed a drink. She needed a rest. She needed to go home, but right here, right now; she needed a sword.

She cracked the door open slowly, praying her luck would continue and the coast was clear.

It wasn’t.

His jacket discarded and shirt sleeves rolled up, Jaime Lannister was waiting calmly on the other side of the closet. His arms shot out and her firmly pinned Brienne against the back of the closet, his green eyes calm and unmoved as she trembled before him.

“Well there you are,” he said softly. “I’ve been searching for you all night. You’ve made quite a nuisance of yourself you know.”

Terror had stolen the air from Brienne’s lungs, and all she could do was watch in silence as Jaime’s gaze swept over her, taking in the drying brown blood splattered against her dress and caking her skin.

“I take it that it was you who buried that axe into the Baratheons?” Jaime asked coolly.

Brienne nodded numbly.

“And who threw the Tyrells down the stairs?” he pushed. “Father is furious, he thought it was a sure thing with Olenna Tyrell. He was even wearing his golden speedos.” Brienne’s eyes widened even further, uncomprehending of how Jaime could be saying these things even now.

“I’m joking,” Jaime reassured her. “They were red satin.” Brienne opened her mouth to respond, only for Jaime to clamp his gloved injured hand over her mouth.

“Shhh,” hissed, raising an eyebrow as he listened out for the sound of quiet footsteps.

“It’s the Starks,” he whispered. “Stay here,” he ordered firmly, shutting the door and plummeting Brienne into darkness.

Blood pounded in Brienne’s ears, wondering why Jaime hadn’t just killed her. Could he…surely he wasn’t…was he trying to help her?

“Hey Stark, I’ve found her!” Jaime called.

Shit.

Shit bugger fuck shit arse!

Brienne barely had time to finish cursing Jaime to all Seven Hells before she was started by the sound of four piercing gun shots, and the rustling of fabric and muffled thuds of collapsing bodies.

Jaime returned to the closet, smoking pistol still in hand and fresh blood shining on his designer shoes.

“Fucking Starks,” Jaime grumbled as he ushered Brienne from the closet. “OK, listen. Down that corridor is my father’s office. You will recognise it by the plaque on the wall. He has an escape door that goes to a path which will lead you to a main road. Tyrion should have lifted lock down by now. Run straight there and get a lift into Lannisport but don’t bother with the police, father has already seen to it they won’t listen.”

“You’re not coming with me?” Brienne asked, hating how helpless she sounded. She had taken down five of the hunters whereas Jaime had only taken down four, but he had a gun and was on her side and overall seemed like someone she wanted to keep close by.

Jaime shook his head, his eyes briefly turning tender with sympathy. “I need to find my father and keep him at bay,” Jaime explained softly. “Dawn is nearly upon and he will be growing desperate.”

Brienne swallowed and nodded, darting down in the direction Jaime had pointed her.

The direction seemed simple, but in the dark the long hallways were an impenetrable web of twists and sharp corners.

Before she reached the office, she heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps coming from in front of her. Brienne grabbed a hold of the nearest door handle and ducked into the room.

It was a bathroom, bright and white and gleaming but for the blood streaked across the floor. Brienne threw the neckline of her dress over her mouth, the sharp iron tang of blood welling in her nostrils. Her eyes began to sting and water as she caught sight of Samwell Tarly, sweet, gentle Samwell Tarly with a son and a wife who put inspirational messages on cushion. Gutted and left for dead by the monsters who had been trailing her all night.

She wanted to collapse, to wail and sob and curse. But she could hear the scraping and slamming of doors as Tywin Lannister checked each room. He was coming closer and Brienne could not risk running back into the open, but the minute he opened the bathroom door she would be cornered and have nowhere to hide unless...

unless….

Brienne closed her eyes, grimacing.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered tearfully as she heaved up Sam’s stiff, heavy body and clambered beneath, her sobs muffled as his still warm body pressed her down into the hard, cold porcelain. “I’m so sorry Sam.”

The door creaked open and Brienne forced herself into stillness as Tywin approached, growing so close that she could feel the slight quiver of his breath in the air as he lingered over the bath.

“Fucking Starks,” he muttered, before spinning on his heels and the slamming the door behind with a slam.

Brienne waited until she had heard the footsteps fade, before carefully emerging from the bath, gently placing Sam’s body back down into the bath. She clambered from the bath, Sam’s blood mingling with the blood from Brienne’s slain enemies. 

She slowly edged the door open, to find the hallway empty. But instead of sprinting down to the office, Brienne stood still and silent, her eyes calmly fixed upon the path Tywin had retreated down.


	10. The Final Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! Thank you so much who had read reviewed! I hope you enjoy it!

Tywin Lannister’s office was filled with all the plush red velvet furniture and ornate gold lion statuettes that Brienne had expected, as well as a few other decorations.

Severed heads, stuffed and preserved with leathery skin and glassy eyes, jutted out from the walls. Skins were stretched out beneath each one, pinned up like grotesque fur rugs. The trophies of past hunts.

Brienne passed each one, looking into their lifeless faces and reading each name on the plaques beneath. The further along she walked, the more names began to ring a bell.

Gendry Waters, eighteen, reported missing by his boss at the petrol station where he worked after failing to return from a Stag Do in Lannisport.

Jeyne Poole, twenty-one. A letter of farewell was found on her desk, declaring her intent to run away to Naath with her unnamed boyfriend. Her parents had insisted that she had been taken, but nobody listened.

Roz Snow. A prostitute working the streets of King’s Landing. Brienne had studied her during her Criminology degree. Several witnesses had seen her be wrestled into a black car with tinted windows, but the police gave up the second the first leads went dry. Twenty-four years old, but a penniless prostitute with no family. Nobody had cared to find out what had happened to her.

Numb, Brienne moved to the emergency escape door to find that Tyrion had been as good as Jaime’s word and succeeded in unlocking the doors. She emerged onto a metal staircase, leading down to the path. Brienne began winding her way away from the house, the cool early morning air kissing her flushed cheeks.

The sky had faded from pitch to blue, the gentle promise of an approaching dawn lighting the sky.

She needed to run, to find help, to get rid of her bloody clothes

_samwell’s still warm b_o_dy in the tub_

She needed to rest, to think of a story

_his wife and son waiting for him at home_

Maybe if she rubbed some of her blood under her lip she could pretend she fainted after a heavy nosebleed

_gendry waters, eighteen years old_

She just needed to find a phone and call her dad, he would sort things out

_her parents knew she had been taken, but nobody listened_

If she could find a hotel, she could borrow a phone and Dad could pay for a room while he organised a ride home

_roz snow a penniless prostitute_

Pretend she had a nosebleed

_witnesses saw her forced into a black car_

Find a hotel

_but nobody cared_

Call Dad

_nobody cared_

Call her dad and make him bring her home

_nobody cared_

Call

_nobody _

_cared_

“Shit,” Brienne swore, muttering under breath, before spinning on her heels and returning to the house.

#

Brienne was waiting for Tywin on the landing outside her bedroom. Her suite had been one of the first places Tywin checked, before circling around the rest of the house. Even at the end of the night, the house was large enough to give Brienne time to test out the balance of each blade, before she found one that sang in her hand.

“Ms Tarth,” a cold voice said. “I see I have found you at last.”

Brienne turned to face him, fingers awkwardly gripping the hilt of the sword.

“And you have a found a toy,” Tywin noted with a sneer. “Put that thing down, before you do yourself damage.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow. “So kind of you to care,” she bit.

Despite the length of the night, Tywin was as smart and polished as ever, only small beads of perspiration betraying him as fully human.

“I do not believe in the wasteful spillage of blood,” Tywin said simply, stepping closer and standing against a backdrop of blades and shield. “Many offerings have already been made to the Gods this night, most by your own hand. There is no need for any more violence.”

“I don’t believe you,” Brienne said, raising her sword ever higher, her hand trembling from the weight.

“Then you are a fool,” Tywin hissed. “You don’t need to fight anymore; I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You don’t understand,” Brienne whispered.

“I understand perfectly,” Tywin said calmly. “You are overwrought, you are frightened. But you are not in any danger.”

Brienne barked out a harsh, brittle laugh that ripped against her throat like sandpaper. She knew that already. _I know that. I understand that. You. Don’t. Understand. You still don’t understand!_

“I will not harm you,” Tywin said in his soft, cool voice. “I am giving you the chance to walk away.”

“I was already on my way out,” she growled.

Tywin nodded slowly.

“And I will reward you, for your skill. You have shown such courage, suck ingenuity,” Tywin told her. “I respect that.”

“I don’t want your respect!” Brienne shrieked, the words ripping out of her with a screech.

Tywin blanched, and his lips thinned. “Then what do you want?” he snapped. “I am offering you wealth, as well as your life.”

Brienne lifted her blade.

_ It is not my life I fight for this morning. _

“Ah, you intend to seek justice for those already dead,” Tywin surmised, his thin lips twisting into a disdainful smile. “For the love of the Gods, they’re _dead. _There is no helping them anymore. Now put that thing down. You don’t even know how to use it.”

Brienne smiled. Her grip on the hilt shifted, until it rested in her hand with ease. The trembling of her arm stilled, and the sword waited. Awake and alive, desire coursing through its steel, it waited.

And then it danced.

Brienne brought the blade down, barely giving Tywin time to duck and wrench a sword off the wall. He clumsily blocked a second blow, as Brienne steadily circled him, cornering him, baiting him.

He thrashed, Brienne parrying his hasty blows with ease, waiting as the aging lion wore himself out, his strikes faltering and fading in strength. She eased the blows, then doubled, feeding him hope then snatching it from his lips.

“You know,” Brienne mused as she deflected a particularly weak blow, “I was four times regional fencing champion. I didn’t put it on my CV because I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Tywin was pressed against the wall, his thin chest heaving beneath his matted cotton shirt. His head, his bald shrivelled, was red and streaked with sweat. His eyes, his green, gold flecked, came to life as they pleaded for mercy.

“I would have won at the Nationals.”

“Please,” Tywin whispered hoarsely. An old man.

_Gendry Jeyne Ros Sam_

A frightened old man.

Brienne lifted the blade.

“I could have at medalled at internationals.”

“Mercy.”

_No one cared_

She thrust it forward, plunging her sword into his ribs, “I couldn’t afford the plane tickets.”

Tywin’s eyes bulged as he jerked and writhed at Brienne’s command.

_Gendry, Jeyne, Sam and Ros._

Brienne pulled the blade from Tywin’s chest, watching him fall to the ground in a slump. Nothing more than a leather puppet with severed strings.

Brienne stood over the body, watching. She noted how tiny he looked, how his eyes continued to bulge in surprise as they regarded the bountiful fountain of blood flowing from his chest. She collected the swords and hanged them carefully on the walls.

She turned to the window; where slivers of light were beginning to emerge from behind dense grey clouds, before crumpling to the floor and trying to cry.

#

Jaime finished emptying out the last of the gasoline, as Brienne sat shivering beneath the blanket Jaime had draped across her shoulders. Tyrion sat a sensible distance away, a wise precaution for someone with so much alcohol within him.

“There,” Jaime said in satisfaction. “That should do it.”

“Enough to bring down the house?” Brienne asked.

“And everything within,” Jaime confirmed. “What do you think Tyrion? The willing destruction of the very symbol of Lannister rule, with blood from every Noble House contained within. Would you say that should be enough to put an end to things?”

“Provided we ask no more favours of the Gods, I’m sure we can say our pact with them is broken,” Tyrion agreed.

“No more hunts,” Brienne asked softly.

Jaime smiled at her, resting his hand upon her shoulder. “No more hunts,” he repeated reassuringly.

“It’s strange,” he mused, “out of all the houses to put an end to things, you wouldn’t think it to be the Lannisters. You would have thought those damned Starks.”

“It’s not so very surprising,” Tyrion interrupted, ever the drunken philosopher. “The Starks needed to believe what they were doing was just, so they packaged it up in rituals and passed down their excuses to each generation.

“But Lannisters, Lannisters were expected to be content that the hunt benefited them and ask for no other justification. The minute a Lannister begins to doubt, the whole thing collapses.” Jaime took out a match box and lit a match. He held it before him, the flickering flame reflected in his eyes.

_‘His eyes look like wildfire,’ _Brienne thought.

“Would you care to do the honours, Ms Tarth?” Jaime asked.

Brienne reached out and plucked the match from Jaime’s hand with steady fingers. She threw the match onto the gasoline, watching in silence as the flames grew from a crackle to a roar, plumes of smoke blossoming as the flames licked at the sky.

“Bring it down, Brienne Tarth,” Jaime said as he took his place beside her. “Bring it down.”


End file.
